


crooked incandescence

by WingsOfTime



Series: ikael [24]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Anxiety, Autistic Character, Gen, Self-Doubt, bad decision-making and allergies does a warrior of variable luminosity make, general shadowbringers spoilers, important conversations on beds, set post shadowbringers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 10:04:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19850881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: A light that is cast shines not at all when one is facing the wrong direction.





	crooked incandescence

**Author's Note:**

> general spoilers for shadowbringers. set after it.

“Who, _Thancred?_ Really?” Ryne sounds both delighted and somewhat mortified. Ikael can understand the feeling.

“Yes, really! Some poor girl for every day of the week. You do not know how cross I got with him sometimes! But thankfully he seems to have stopped being so…” He does his best impression of Thancred's stance and manner when they had first met.

Ryne covers her mouth as she laughs. Ikael says, “You have a beautiful smile, kitten; don’t hide it,” and smiles warmly at her. She moves her hands shyly.

Ikael, Ryne, and the Archons have gathered here for a sort of get-together, at Ikael’s insistence. Unfortunately, the Leveilleur twins had been occupied (much to Alisaie’s annoyance), but Ikael has mollified himself about this with a few cupcakes. And then some more cupcakes, with Ryne’s assistance. And cakes. And pies. And the rest of what is now a rather large supply of baked goods for this party.

It has been so long since Ikael has baked for a party! The night before had been _very_ fun, despite the noise complaints from the neighbours and Thancred's grumbling about needing sleep. And do not think Ikael hadn’t caught the dopey way he had been looking at him and Ryne. Thancred can hem and haw and groan and drag his feet as much as he likes, but Ikael knows better than to be fooled by his melodrama. Deep down, he just wants to fall into Ikael’s open arms and sob in happiness at the life they have and also how soft Ikael’s hair is and how he nice he smells and then also maybe eat one of his cupcakes. At least, Ikael thinks so.

At least he has gained a new fan, he muses as Ryne licks icing sugar off her hand. He hands her a napkin from his stack. He had brought extra.

“Ryne,” he says reasonably, “You have to eat something substantial for lunch, okay? You cannot simply fill your stomach with our sweets.”

Ryne looks up at him with trepidatious eyes. “I know, but you didn’t cook any of the other food! And I told you, the last time I ate something Mira-Kae made I got food poisoning! It was horrid.”

Ikael tries and fails to hide a wince. Ah, yes, Mira-Kae. An enthusiastic culinarian-in-training, but… very much _in training_. Oh...

“How about this,” he suggests. “You pick out what you think looks good, and I will taste-test it! I have a very good sense for these things, you know.”

He taps the bridge of his nose with his forefinger wisely. Ryne stares at him, and then after a second mirrors the gesture. She nods.

She tugs him over to a small bowl of what seems to be some sort of pasta. It is a good choice; it looks quite filling, and—the sauce is a very specific shade of pink. Ikael leans forwards, sniffing.

Ah. Shrimp.

He glances at Ryne. “You want this one?”

She nods, cradling her hands to her chest. Ikael smiles at her—what a sweet thing—and says, “Alright then. Hey, is Thancred nearby?”

They look around. Thancred is talking to Y'shtola, very much out of shrimp-detecting distance. Good, good. Ikael does not wish to be lectured at for the better part of the afternoon.

“Don’t tell him I ate shrimp,” he says.

He picks up one of the little disposable plates, eyeballs how much pasta he can eat without dying in a bell or so, and scoops himself a good few mouthfuls of it. He is hungry too. Then he takes one of his many forks (he also has extra of those) and tastes some.

“Is good!” he mumbles at an anticipative Ryne, giving her a thumbs-up. Her face breaks into a smile, and she helps herself to a generous serving of pasta. Ikael quickly finishes his own portion before Thancred can notice that he ate any.

“Hey.” A deep, accented voice hails them, and Ikael turns around and looks up—and up, and up—into the face of a tall, white-scaled drahn.

“A-a-ah, hey!” Ikael replies, a bit obtusely. _Oh… tall._

Ryne steps behind him, her hand curling into the laces of his shirt. Ikael wraps his tail around her waist comfortingly. This big, handsome man isn’t someone to be afraid of, he is certain!

The drahn frowns down at Ikael. “Ah? Do you have some sort of speech impediment, or have you had a little too much of the alcohol here, little mystel?”

 _Oh._ Ikael flushes. He clears his throat, trying to calm himself enough that he does not stutter once more, especially after _that_ comment. He has to swallow a few times, but he manages to say, clearly enough, “A-ah… the former. Do you, um. Need something?”

“Do I _um_ need something or do I need something?” The drahn’s mouth curls up in a smile. “Hah! Yes, little mystel, I need something.”

He leans forwards on his knees, and it is all Ikael can do not to flinch away when he says, in an insultingly slow and exaggerated manner, “I requisitioned a set of armour a week ago. Where can I go and pick it up?”

“U-um.” His face is _far_ too close, and Ikael can feel his heart suddenly leap into his throat. In a bad way, unfortunately. Minding Ryne (who has shifted even further behind him), he takes a careful step back. “A-a-ah over. Um. Over by the—by the—um.”

Ryne shoots him an uncertain look, gently squeezing his hand. Ikael squeezes back, despite the clamminess of his skin—he is _fine_ , it is okay. No one is yelling at him yet. He closes his eyes for a second to ground himself. When he opens them, the drahn looks annoyed.

Oh. Oh no.

“‘ _By the—by the—_ ’ By the _what_ , you asinine little cat? Spit it out!” He straightens up, and begins to tap his foot impatiently. “I do not have all day to wait for your feeble little brain to catch up.”

Ikael’s ears flatten down to his head. He makes a useless noise, swallowing around salty saliva. He does not know what—he does not know what “asinine” means (which makes him feel _stupid_ ), but he can tell it is an insult. He stares up at the drahn, cheeks red in humiliation, and finds he cannot reply.

“Go ask someone else!” He has been holding Ryne’s hand in a death grip, he realizes only as she speaks up. She steps out in front of him, scowling up at the tall man. “Ikael doesn’t want to talk to you! You are being very rude, and you need to know you can’t just insult people and then demand things from them!”

Oh. Ikael is being defended by a child. He ducks his head, squeezing at his ear. Yes, right, this man is being _rude_ , and Ikael should tell him off.

“Please, u-um.” His voice is a hoarse whisper. Damn it. “Please go a—plea—please go a-a-away.”

The drahn scowls down at Ryne, although she holds his gaze. “I-I-I think I _shall_ ,” he mocks, before stomping off in a huff. Ikael buries his face in his hands. He says— _he_ says that. A lot. Oh gods.

“Ikael?” Ryne touches his hand hesitantly. “Ikael, are you okay?”

Ikael presses his fingers into his eyes before pulling his hands away from his face. “I-I am. I’m sorry, Ryne. I-I’ll just go sit down somewhere for a bit, yeah? Please, don’t let me—don’t let me, um.”

He gives up, swallowing and looking away. He pets Ryne on the head, giving her a wavering smile before walking away with his tail between his legs. She stares after him in concern, her pink pasta mostly forgotten.

~*~

Ikael has his share of doubts. Some of them are small, like how much he _really_ comes off as an alley cat in need of a haircut, or why some people completely overlook him and his somewhat diminutive stature when they are in search of a hired hand. And then some of them are larger, so huge that some nights he feels as if they will swallow him whole and he will disappear completely. Why can Ikael never be anyone’s favourite person? Had Thancred even missed him at _all_ for five years? Do the other Scions love him?

(He is certain, somewhere horribly honest and deep in his soul, that he loves his people more than they love him. Thancred tops that list, although Ikael will never admit it to him.)

The matter of his intelligence is… somewhere in the middle in terms of magnitude. Slowly dripping lower and bigger the more time he spends with the Scions, but still small enough that he can mostly tell himself he is not bothered.

But Ikael… knows he has a stutter. Of course he does! It is not something he has ever been able to help. His friends do not mind, and most of the time— _most of the time—_ that knowledge is enough for him to push any shame he may feel aside, where he cannot look at it. But other times… he can see the frustration in people’s eyes, even when they are trying not to show it. He can see them tell themselves to _be patient, he’s not doing it on purpose, be nice to him_. Sometimes, when something is very bad, Ikael cannot get any words out at all, and no one has ever reacted well to that. No matter how much they tell themselves—or him—that they do not mind it.

Ikael is not eloquent. Ikael is not knowledgeable. Not educated. He can barely speak properly. He says stupid things, he does stupid things, and sometimes all he can tell himself is _stupid, stupid, stupid_. There are other nasty words people in his tribe used to hiss at him. Not in Eorzean but in his native tongue, which is worse—the letters strip themselves bare and do not leave him, sizzle themselves onto his skin like brands. Sometimes Ikael calls himself by those words, and then he cries, all alone and by himself. He… does not think like that when someone who loves him is nearby.

But Ikael had been so lonely before coming to the First.

People are walking towards him. Ikael counts Thancred, and Y'shtola, and Ryne trailing hesitantly behind them. He buries his head between his knees and fists his hands around his ears. _Why so many people?_ It is… too much. His plainness and his mediocrity and his idiocy, next to all of these bright bright people, will be too bare, too exposed. He hates it.

“I… don’t think he wants to talk to you.” That is Ryne. “Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, you were right to.” Thancred. A wispy sound like fingers against hair—bad contrast, but good feeling, Ikael knows. “Thank you, Ryne. We can take it from here.”

Ryne leaves. Ikael can hear Thancred and Y'shtola approach him before sitting down on either side of him, apparently not thinking to ask whether they can come into his personal space. Ikael does not want them to—he feels—horrible, like a stupid little kitten next to renowned scholars. Which he _is_ , he supposes. Of course it is not the first time he has felt like this, but… he has never been more aware that that is the _truth_. He has never known them well enough to solidify the feeling.

The more he knows them, he thinks in despair, the more he can see how inadequate he is.

Oh, he is making himself cry again. _Bad Ikael, you are not supposed to do this in public_. Ikael is sorry. He cannot help but be a little bit of a failure.

He can hear furiously muffled whispering above him. He hates it, because even though he knows it isn’t the case, he feels as if he is being debated like he is a problem. He lifts his head to sniffle, loudly, and then ducks back down.

That seems to do the trick. Y'shtola and Thancred fall silent in their discussion, whatever it had been. After a moment, Ikael feels a tentative hand on his shoulder.

“ _More than that_ ,” Y'shtola hisses, just barely audible.

“ _He doesn’t want me to!_ ”

“ _How do you know?! Of course he does!”_

 _“I do know! He doesn’t!_ ”

“Shut _up_ ,” Ikael says, and his voice breaks. He is too miserable to feel warm from their argument, and right now they are just making things worse.

“Ikael.” Thancred's voice lifts to a normal volume. His tone is confident, and a little careful. Too strange. Too much of a reminder. “Ryne told us that you were—”

Ikael gets up, and Thancred falls silent. His hand tumbles off Ikael’s shoulder like it is made of clay.

Ikael walks away.

~*~

Ikael misses Ardbert. Maybe it was because of their shared soul, but Ikael had always felt… equal to him. At the end, in Amaurot, he had been by Ikael’s side every step of the way. He had been… a comfort. The only friend to whom Ikael had never once felt the need to prove himself worthy.

And now he is gone.

Ikael remembers beautiful little stars of aether getting sucked into him like Ardbert is—was—had been—nothing but just that. Or just a memory, like Minfilia. A memory that had stuck around for a hundred years before finally finding its peace.

Ikael still misses him.

He goes back to his room at the Pendants. It is empty and unused, but still there for him. He looks out the window like he had so many times with Ardbert, and cries. All at once he feels so desperately, bitterly lonely.

He collapses on the bed. Curls up against the pillow and hugs it to his chest like it is his only friend. All of a sudden he misses the days when it had been his closest one, back when he had been too preoccupied to worry about things like how out of place he is and how not smart he is and how much he will disappoint the Scions and the mysterious man he had thought at the time was an amnesiac G’raha.

Finally, when Ikael has exhausted his tears to nothing but sticky, cold tracks across his cheeks that pool on the bridge of his nose, he falls asleep.

~*~

Ikael wakes to the sound of insistent knocking. It is discombobulating, and for a second he does not know why he had chosen to go to his room in the middle of his own party and take a nap. Then he remembers, and shame rushes over him like a flood. Oh, right.

The knocking gets louder and more erratic. Ikael stares at the doors, idly wondering how much time it will take Thancred to figure out that they are unlocked. He… does not know what to say, or what to think. He feels still a little sad, still a little lonely, but mostly muted. And embarrassed. The Scions were never supposed to know about this particular insecurity of his, and now they will, because Ikael has not been careful enough. And he cannot help himself from telling Thancred things even when he does not wish to, because Thancred speaks to him oh-so-sweetly and it confuses Ikael’s poor little heart, makes it babble. Even when the rest of him, sometimes, does not want it to.

What makes it worse this time is that all this had taken was a superficial little taunt from a not-au ra. Ikael hangs his head. His shame spreads, uncoiling from his throat into his chest.

The doors burst open. Ikael is staring at the floor, eyes wide, because just half a second ago he had heard someone who was very much _not_ Thancred say, “They are not locked.”

Oh. Y'shtola is here too.

Oh.

“There you are!” Thancred sounds harried and not at all sweet, which makes an old, familiar seed of panic drop into Ikael’s chest. “Do you have any idea how long I have been looking for you?”

No. Ikael had fallen asleep.

“Thancred, _calm_ yourself.” Y'shtola’s voice is sharp. “If you cannot control your temper, you may leave. Your ire is the last thing he needs right now.”

Thancred stops moving in Ikael’s periphery, and Ikael hears him draw in an audible breath before letting it out again. “Fine,” he says. He sounds at least somewhat calmer.

Ikael is utterly confused, and he is beginning to get a little scared despite himself. He does not know why Thancred is mad at him; what has he done wrong? He is about to apologize, and then Thancred says, “Ryne told us what happened.”

Which isn’t much, Ikael thinks, flushing in embarrassment. Y'shtola says, “I do not know why—”

“You _knew_ that pasta had shrimp in it!” Thancred interrupts her, somewhat explosively. Apparently he can only calm himself for a few seconds at a time. “You even told Ryne not to tell me! What in Hydaelyn’s name were you thinking?!”

Ikael is startled enough by that to look up. He stares at Thancred with wide eyes. Thancred stares back.

“I-I,” Ikael croaks. His voice is dry and cracked. He clears his throat and tries again. “A-ah. What?”

Thancred glares at him, and Ikael shrinks back despite himself. Is he really that upset about the shrimp? Oh. Ikael is sorry. That was very stupid, in retrospect.

 _Like everything you do_ , a nasty little voice in his head tells him. Ikael’s eyes heat.

“Thancred, we are not here to lecture him about _shrimp_.” Y'shtola sounds as if she has said this more times in the past bell than she had ever expected to in her entire life. She looks at Ikael, and her voice gentles. “We are here to check if you are alright. Did you know, you made Ryne very worried when you ran off like that?”

She gives him a small, compassionate smile, but all it does is make Ikael feel a rush of guilt. He had made a _child_ worry about him? Oh…

“I-I-I’m sorry for ruining her party.” Ikael buries his head in his hands, trying not to cry again. He feels horrid.

“Yes, well, do you know what would have ruined it more for her? Seeing you nearly drop dead because you ate some pasta.” Thancred's voice is flat and annoyed. “You do not know how scared she was for you during the whole affair with the Lightwardens. And now you’re, what, going to fall to the ground in agony again because of some silly little _whim_? Have you no sense of self-preservation?”

Tears flood Ikael’s vision. “I-I-I’m sorry,” he cries, beginning to shake. He had expected at least _some_ sympathy, but Thancred has not so much as moved to give Ikael another little pat on the shoulder. He has… _never_ blamed him so directly and coldly for anything, and Ikael cannot handle it. “I-I’m so stu—stupid a-and useless and I-I-I’m _sorry—”_

“ _Thancred!”_

“No—no, I didn’t mean…” Thancred sounds as if he is backtracking. “You are not stupid; do not say that. Listen—Ryne isn’t actually worried about you. Wait. I mean—”

“Twelve have patience,” Y'shtola mutters. “Because _I_ certainly do not! Ikael, Thancred has developed some sort of irrational phobia of you consuming shrimp, despite the fact that actual physical danger draws from him nary a wince. And he is too much of a coward to admit it. Have we settled that matter? Can we move on? Good.”

“I…” says Thancred, and goes quiet.

Ikael feels someone settle on the bed beside him. Y'shtola, he thinks. This is confirmed when she says, in a much gentler voice than Ikael would expect, “Now what, pray tell, is the matter? I am certain we can work it through like mature adults.”

Ikael wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. He feels fine enough to speak, which is good. “I-I am just so… inadequate compa—compared to all of you,” he says, eyes falling to the floor. They will not leave him alone, he thinks, and he had always known he would have to tell them eventually. He ducks his head into his chest. “I-I’m not smart and I can’t—I can’t figure anything out ever and I—and I—and I can’t—I can’t speak pr—I pan’t sk—”

He closes his eyes in shame, bringing his hands up once more to cover his face. The more he thinks about it, the more difficult the words are to form. He feels moments away from losing the ability to use them completely, and so he desperately tries to focus on something else. How about—how about…

“Oh,” Thancred says quietly. “So that doubt isn’t as absent I as I had always thought it was.”

Thancred! Thancred is being unnecessarily mean to Ikael, like he had been to Ryne in back in Il Mheg (Ikael had hugged and comforted the poor child when that had happened, and when Thancred had finally gotten over himself enough to listen, much later, the event had slithered its way into Ikael’s Lecture). That means… that Ikael has to ignore Thancred, and just listen to Y'shtola, who is the Ikael in this situation. Yes, he decides. That is about right.

“It appears not,” Y'shtola murmurs randomly. Ikael feels something nearly touch him—his ears flatten back. “Can I touch you, Ikael?”

After a moment of deliberation, Ikael shakes his head. No.

The something withdraws. “Very well,” Y'shtola says. “Well, for what it is worth, I… do not think you are stupid at all. You are very smart sometimes.”

Ikael shakes his head. No, he isn’t. “I am ‘asinene,’” Ikael quotes as Thancred settles in on his other side.

There is a pause. “‘Asinine,’” Thancred suggests without inflection.

Oh, gods. “See?!” Ikael cries, shoving his head into his knees once more. He is _stupid_.

“No. Vocabulary is not in indication of anything but education and the amount of books one has shoved one’s nose into.” Y'shtola’s voice sounds like it is frowning. “Besides, Eorzean is not your first language, is it? You can hardly be expected to have perfect knowledge of all its twisting words and phrases.”

That is… true. Ikael peeks up at her, although his ears are still drooping. He opens his mouth to tell her that his Mamae is much smarter than him, and she is also bilingual, but Thancred says, “Who called you asinine?”

Ikael’s face falls into laxness. “The drahn,” he mumbles to his feet. “’Tis nothing I have not heard a million times before.”

This is true, although Ryne had been there to hear it with him this time. Ikael wonders whether that is what had made it worse.

“Well, he is wrong,” Thancred says a little sharply. “And he has no right to draw judgements on you just because he cannot be bothered to ask you for something without mocking you.”

Ikael’s shoulders slump. “It’s okay, Thancred,” he says tiredly. “I didn’t take it personally.” Too many times. Too many people.

“It was enough to upset you, wasn’t it?” Thancred straightens up, his posture offended. He draws in a breath to continue, but Y'shtola stops him with a brief touch on the shoulder.

“Ikael… think of intelligence as a wheel,” she says. Apparently she has decided to ignore Thancred as well. “It is divided into different segments, and each one is unique. One segment, let us say, is mathematics, and arcanima. Another can be emotional control. Another may be social ability. Another may be… music, perhaps, or dance. Martial prowess.”

Thancred regards her curiously. “You are starting to sound as convoluted as Urianger,” he comments.

“That may be because this is something we learned at the Studium; something _you_ seem to have forgotten,” she returns pointedly. “Anyways, Ikael, what I am trying to say is that even though you think yourself ungifted _academically_ —and may I say for a moment that considering your lack of formal education, I do not think you are as much as you seem to think—that is no reason to undervalue yourself. You are as critical a member of our group as any of us.”

Ikael hugs his legs, curling his tail around them. “I-I don’t see what I bring to the table,” he mumbles. “I-I-I’m obviously not good at—not good at—talking. A-a-and I can never figure anything out a-and I always have to be told things and people keep telling me that they're showing me diagrams meant for children and—” He pauses to suck in a loud breath.

“—And you lack the years of education the rest of us went through to be able to understand those concepts at a more advanced level,” Thancred interrupts. “You are no Archon, nor one’s sister, and you were never in the same position of privilege and prestige that the Leveilleur twins were. But give you scarcely a year’s worth of culinary training, a passion to learn on your own, and a barely functioning kitchen? You have made leaps and bounds in that art.”

Ikael blushes at the praise despite himself. “I-it’s just cooking,” he mutters shyly.

“Last I checked, the Bismarck served primarily seafood,” Y'shtola says, her tone lifting to match Thancred's. “Not a larger variety of pies than I ever knew existed, or Hingan-Ul’dahn fusion food, or whatever else you seem to completely make up on the spot.”

“It is true. You have a natural talent, Ikael, and much skill besides.” Thancred tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. “You know none of us can cook to an even satisfactory level, academics be damned, but look at you.”

“Even disregarding that—not that it _should_ be disregarded—you are kind, compassionate, patient, honest,” Y'shtola continues. “I dare say none of the rest of us, individually, have all of those qualities put together. Intelligence is not a measure of worth, Ikael. And we value your heart higher than you know.”

Ikael hides his head in his knees. “O-oh,” he says, bashful.

“Some of us could use a lesson in matters of the heart, in fact,” Y'shtola adds. “Gods know Thancred has a tendency to turn into an emotionally stunted brick wall when you are not around to chisel at him.”

“Hey,” says Thancred without any heat.

Ikael rocks from side to side, heart slowly filling from Y'shtola’s words. It _is_ true that all of the Scions are very sweet to Ikael, even when he does not know why. In Ikael’s opinion, of course, you should be sweet to everyone, because even if they are not having a bad day, you can make it a better one.

“ _Can I touch him now?_ ” he hears Thancred ask under his breath.

“ _Ask him!”_

Thancred clears his throat. “Ah, can I—”

“Yes,” Ikael chokes out, his tail whipping to the side. It hits something, and he hears Thancred say “Ow,” very, very quietly.

An arm tentatively settles over Ikael’s shoulders. Ikael unfolds himself, turns around, and squeezes Thancred as tightly as he can, closing his eyes.

“You don’t think I’m stupid?” he whispers into Thancred's collar. Because in the end, really, the worlds’ opinions do not matter.

He feels Thancred shake his head. “I think you are amazing,” he says, completely and utterly honest.

Ikael starts to cry.

~*~

“Ah! Thou hast returned.” Urianger’s smile is kind and a little relieved. Ikael tries his best to return it, although he thinks his comes out mostly pained. He tightens his grip on Y'shtola’s staff, white-knuckled.

“Ikael!” Ryne rushes over to him. With Ikael hunched over like he is, she stands eye-to-eye with him. “What happened? Are you alright?”

“What did I say about the shrimp?” Thancred scolds him. Ikael ignores him, like he had the previous fifty times.

“Uri… anger,” he whimpers pathetically. He hobbles forwards, wincing at a particularly painful throb.

“The… shrimp?” Ryne looks from Ikael to Thancred—who shrugs—and back to Ikael. “Oh no, I ate that as well! It _was_ bad, wasn’t it?”

“No, it wasn’t bad.” Thancred wraps an arm around Ikael to steady him, fussing even despite his discontentment. “He is just allergic. _Very_ allergic. Y'shtola has gone to fetch a long-term remedy; go see what is keeping, her, will you?” Ryne nods. “That’s my girl.”

She rushes off. Thancred frowns up at Urianger. “What are you doing just standing there? Help the fellow out!”

He gives Ikael a little push that feels more like a shove. Ikael claps a hand over his mouth as he stumbles into Urianger, willing himself not to vomit. Oh, he just needs to curl up on the ground and be left alone…

“Gods, I beseech thee,” Urianger mutters. His hands smooth out Ikael’s hair. Ikael leans into the touch, grateful for its coolness. After a moment, he feels the tingling, soothing sensation of healing magic spread through him, and the sharp ache in his stomach fades to dullness.

It has not left completely, but Ikael no longer feels as if he wants to die. “Thank you,” he mumbles at Urianger tiredly.

“ _You are very welcome, my dear. Remember, if Thancred ever overreacts again because he is projecting his own sense of inadequacy onto you, you may always come to me._ ” Urianger’s smooth reply is in Ikael’s own language. Ikael smiles at him gratefully, biting his lip to stifle a laugh, and hugs him.

There is a very pointed pause behind him. “What?” Thancred's tone is poignant. “What was _that?_ Did I hear my name? ‘Tahnkred?’”

His accent is atrocious. Ikael snorts into Urianger’s stomach, then immediately presses his lips together. At least his smile is hidden from view.

“You learned his language?” Thancred sounds incredulous. “Why am I surprised—of course you did. And of course you managed to find the time to become fluent, despite my never noticing.”

Urianger pats Ikael on the back of head. Ikael thinks he feels him shrug. “I didst foresee the need to, most especially since he lacked the education necessary to understand mine speech in full,” he says. “I wished not for him to feel ashamed.”

“Urianger helped me a lot to write and speak better,” Ikael mumbles. “I will ever be grateful.”

“Ah, I see.” Thancred's tone has mellowed into something almost gentle. “Well then, who am I to begrudge you any wont to talk about someone when they are right next to you and cannot understand you?”

Ikael nods in agreement. Who, indeed?

Ikael feels a hand that is not Urianger’s smooth his hair down. Thancred sounds like he is smiling when he says, “Anyways, I have been thinking about something, Ikael. There are a few things I have learned and always kept close to my chest for their usefulness. Invaluable little lessons in temperament and keeping one’s cool no matter the situation… that sort of thing. Only you can most accurately guess at the root of your anxiety, but if you’d like, I could try and… teach you.”

Ikael draws away from Urianger, regarding Thancred curiously. “Teach… me?” he asks.

Thancred scratches the back of his neck, uncharacteristically off-balance. “Well, yes. It might help you modulate your speaking pattern, perhaps. Calm your nerves. Even control your emotions a bit better, if you think that is something you... That is to say, I know I may be nearer the opposite extreme in that regard, but I think I can. Ahem. Help you,” he finishes lamely.

“A shining example of said verbal aptitude,” Urianger says. Thancred glares at him, but gives Ikael a little half-smile.

Ikael has to take a moment; he is feeling rather overwhelmed. He presses his hands to his cheeks, feeling as if his smile will break them. “You would—would do—that? For me? Really?” His fingers move to cover his mouth. “Oh…”

Thancred's face pinks lightly. “Well—I—yes, of course. Come now, it isn’t as if I am offering you anything shockingly prodigious.” He looks at Ikael, then looks away, clearing his throat. “You don’t have to react like _that_.”

“’Tis the best for the entertainment value that he does, methinks.” Urianger’s voice is thick with amusement. Thancred mutters something under his breath.

Ikael begins to coo at him, and that is when Ryne and Y'shtola rejoin them.

“Ikael, you owe me eighty gil,” Y'shtola announces, handing him a small bottle. “A small price to pay for your failure to think ahead. Thancred, are you ill?”

She frowns, and tries to lay a hand against his forehead. He bats her away, even as his ears go red. “No! I am fine, leave me alone. All of you! Ugh.”

“I have never seen him blush like that!” Ryne’s eyes widen a little. “Thancred, are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

Ikael coos louder, half to see if it will make Thancred's ears turn even more red. It does.

“Oh, Ikael, you have to teach me that spell,” says Ryne. Thancred sputters, and Ikael chortles gleefully.

“Alright, alright, that is enough picking on him.” Y'shtola smiles wryly. “We do not want to exhaust his emotional capacity for the week. Ikael, down your remedy, and let us rejoin the party. There are still sweet tarts I wish to try.”

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> the spell is called "ikael's stupid cooing noise" as dubbed by thancred and it is . super effective instant critical hit


End file.
